


perihelion

by jediseagull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Implied Violence, M/M, Minor Injuries, SHAMELESS BRIBERY FOR THE HOCKEY GODS, in theory part of the mob!AU but tbh i'm almost certainly gonna joss myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: Nicke has always looked at Sasha like this, and every time he looks, Sasha will always be looking back.Or, attempts at phone sex, astronomy metaphors, and taking down the Russian mafia: a love story.





	1. four times sasha and nicke didn’t have phone sex

**Author's Note:**

> Written for elimination games 6 and 7 of the 2018 ECF, thanks @ the hockey gods for accepting the offering of my pain in trying to get these two ~~losers~~ STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS to bang.

“Hello, Nicke. What are you wearing?” Sasha says cheerfully as soon as the call goes through, because even the beautiful and supremely talented Agent Nicklas Bäckström can’t throw office supplies at his head while he’s undercover in Magnitka.

Bäckström hangs up on him. Sasha has always been a great admirer of his efficiency.

Precisely thirty seconds later, the phone buzzes again. “Out of professional respect, I gave you enough time to finish,” Bäckström says.

“Nicke! How hurtful!”

Bäckström ignores him completely. “We have a problem.” There’s an edge to his voice that means it’s a _problem_ problem, a stop-flirting-and-pay-attention problem. “We’ve tracked down what we think is the original identity. He’s not who he says he is.”

“No, really?” Sasha says, flinging himself back onto the hotel room bed with a thump. “Of course he’s not who he fucking says he is. Is he even American?”

“Canadian.”

“Same thing. So what’s the problem?”

“You were at the gala,” Bäckström says, the unspoken _what do you_ think _it is?_ coming through loud and clear.

Yes, Sasha had been at the gala. Sasha had laughed and made small talk and swapped full and empty champagne glasses back and forth without drinking a sip, and both he and the camera sewn into his bowtie had been at the perfect angle to see the look on Evgeni Vladmirovich Malkin’s face as his new husband pressed their foreheads together for one drawn-out moment before Malkin took the stage.

Sasha’s seen that look before, and on a face more familiar than Malkin’s. He knows _exactly_ what the problem is.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing, yet.” _Not until we figure out who’s behind it_ , he means. That’s what Bäckström is waiting for. Who - and _why_.

Why would someone want the heir to Malkin Metalworks married to a man who is probably going to kill him?

They both know it’s not a question Sasha is going to be able to answer now, lying half-dressed in a rented tuxedo on sheets of dubious cleanliness. And it’s not a required check-in - Bäckström is coordinating information because that’s the whole point of Interpol, but Sasha still reports to the FSB. Which means…“You really did call for phone sex!” Sasha says, delighted.

Bäckström hangs up again, which is really only to be expected. All the shots you don’t take, Sasha thinks to himself, and rolls to his feet to finish getting ready for bed. He’s waited for Nicke Bäckström this long; he can wait a little longer.

* * *

Sasha has worked organized crime for five of the six years he’s been an agent of the FSB. It’s good work, challenging work, but between the violence and the corruption it will chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat if you aren’t sure of yourself down to your bones.

Naturally, Sasha excels at it.

* * *

“He’s here,” Bäckström says without preamble. “And he claims he knows who hired him.”

“Who’d he follow?”

“Kuznetsov.”

Sasha sighs into his afternoon tea. He knows better than to go to the Interpol offices too frequently, what with his line of work, but there are times when having to rely on junior agents as messengers causes more problems than it solves. If Zhenya is known to be working with Interpol, it will be clear to anyone with half a brain that Sasha is too. “And?” 

“And Interpol doesn’t interrogate people,” Bäckström says snippily.

Sasha stirs in a little more jam, sips the tea, and grimaces. It’s several degrees cooler than the scalding temperature he prefers. “Make Zhenya do it, then.”

Bäckström’s answering sigh crackles through the speaker. “Agent Ovechkin.”

“Nicke,” he replies, calm and purposeful.

They aren’t fighting, because there is nothing to fight about.

“It’s going to be bad,” Bäckström says. “You think he’d be here, talking to us, if he could shoot some no-name from a hundred metres out and call it a day?”

Sasha does not think that. “No matter who he names, Zhenya will do the right thing. He’s a good kid.”

“A kid who just blew his cover and yours.” A rustle, and the sharp _tap-tap-tap_ of Bäckström’s pen against the desk broadcasting impatience and agitation like radio code.  “Sasha. Stop slacking off and come do the interrogation.”

“If you’re so desperate to see me -” Sasha starts, but Bäckström had as good as said _please_. He’s not going to protest what he’ll end up doing anyways. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t let him murder everyone before I arrive.”

“He could try,” Bäckström agrees, and ends the call.

* * *

It’s February, and he’s just been assigned his first case with Interpol. He walks into their Moscow office, leans on the reception desk with his best charming grin, and says, “Hello, I’m Alexander Mikhailovich Ovechkin, and I’m here for a meeting with Agent Bäckström?”

“Yes, he’s expecting you,” says the receptionist, smiling back. “Go to the end of the hall, turn left, it’s the second door on your left-hand side.” 

He clocks four security cameras in the lobby and another three in the hallway as he makes his way back and knocks on the wooden door he’s been directed to.

“Come in,” says the man on the other side of the door, and Sasha does.

He’s never doubted himself, never wavered when he could move forward instead, but if Sasha’s path is set into the stars, the first time he meets Nicklas Bäckström is perihelion, and nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

“Hey, Nicke.” He has to raise his voice a little; the phone is sitting face-up in his locker, the call on speaker.

“Yes?”

“You know how many of the Bratva have ties to international crime?”

“Agent Ovechkin,” Bäckström says. “I know this might be hard to believe, but keeping track of that information is literally my job.”

“Really? How convenient!” Sasha says. 

“Do I want to ask why?”

“Because,” Sasha says, and shrugs his shoulders until his tac-vest isn’t blocking the belt pouch where he keeps spare cartridges. “We’re about to take down a good chunk of this cell, and I don’t like to leave work unfinished.”

There’s a split-second pause in which Sasha imagines Bäckström’s eyelids twitching with exasperation. He loves that face; Bäckström only makes it when he’s genuinely concerned and pissed off about it. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“And if I don’t?”

“And if you don’t,” Bäckström says. “Call me back, and we’ll see what we can do.”

* * *

The thing he loves most about working with Agent Bäckström is - well, there are a lot of things. He’d be hard pressed to choose one. He loves Bäckström’s neat blond hair and flat, serious green eyes. He loves how Bäckström can take disparate pieces of information and see how they fit in an instant, finding patterns and drawing connections out of ephemera, out of nothing.

But if he really had to pick, then what he loves most of all is that Sasha knows exactly what he’s capable of, and from the very beginning, Bäckström has too. He has more than once grumbled that Sasha’s ideas are terrible and going to end in bloodshed, may tell Sasha that he _shouldn’t_ do something - but he has never once said he _can’t_.

Bäckström believes in him with a faith that is heady. How could Sasha do anything less?

* * *

“I’m not dead.”

“Congratulations,” Bäckström says dryly. “I didn’t mean you had to call me back _immediately after the raid_. Have you even changed out of your gear?”

Sasha looks down at his chest. Blood is barely visible against the black fabric of the vest, but there’s grey scuffs of dirt on both his pant legs from when he’d ducked behind a car for cover. “No, I’m still - _wait a minute_.”

“Oh, no,” Bäckström says, but Sasha talks over him, grinning wildly. “Nicke, Nicke, Nicke. Did you just ask me what I’m wearing? Are we finally going to have phone sex?”

There’s a sharp knock on the door. “Actually,” Bäckström says, through the phone and in person, strolling into the locker room as casually as if he’s been there a thousand times. Or - almost as casually. There’s the faintest blush on his cheeks, but he’s smirking like he knows he’s blowing Sasha’s mind a little bit and Sasha doesn’t care at all. “I kind of thought I might do you one better.”

Sasha beams at him for as long as it takes for Bäckström - Nicke - to look him up and down, raise an eyebrow, and say, “No, sorry, I’ve changed my mind. I refuse to be seen in public with someone who looks like they just spent an hour rolling around in the dirt.”

“Should have stuck with the phone sex,” Sasha says wisely, and Nicke laughs.

“Go wash up. We can get dinner after, my treat.”

Sasha has never showered faster in his life.

Dinner ends up being a hole in the wall Italian place, because Sasha is starving and needs carbs and protein and also, preferably, garlic bread. They eat in comfortable silence until Sasha’s stomach has stopped trying to devour itself, but before he even moves to set his fork down Nicke is doing the same, anticipating him like always. His eyes are steady, his expression no different from any one of a hundred times they’ve faced each other.

Sasha’s been waiting for him all this time, but he’s known since the beginning that he was only ever waiting on Nicke’s sense of duty, not his heart. He’s always looked at Sasha like this, and every time he looks, Sasha will always be looking back.  

“So?” Nicke says.

 Sasha shrugs. He’s probably smiling like an idiot. He might have basil in his teeth. He can’t bring himself to care. “So.”

They go back to Nicke’s apartment. Sasha’s never been inside before - didn’t even know the address until Nicke entered it into his phone’s GPS - but it’s familiar in the way that he imagines he might recognize Nicke’s brother or parents in a crowd, something about the feel of it so clearly _Nicke_.

“Are you going to stare at my interior decorating all night?”

Sasha laughs and wiggles his eyebrows, dodges the punch to his shoulder, and says, “Just waiting for you to show me the way, as always.”

“Come on, then,” Nicke says, and Sasha follows him deeper into the apartment, past the small hall closet and the joint living room/kitchen, all the way to the master bedroom. “Sit,” Nicke says, nodding at the bed until Sasha drops onto it, bouncing a little as the mattress springs bend under his weight. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s expecting it when Nicke emerges from the bathroom a few seconds later holding a bottle of lube, but the sight still sends his pulse thundering in his ears. His heart is burning, incandescent like a rocket launch, too bright and powerful for his ribs to contain it.

Nicke must see that, because Nicke sees everything. The bottle gets dropped on the carpet by Sasha’s feet, and then Nicke’s hands are on his skull and his jaw, tilting his face up until they’re a breath apart. Sasha can see his own certainty reflected back in the gleam of Nicke’s irises, and then, at once and at last, Nicke kisses him.

Nicke’s stubble is scratchy and his mouth tastes like garlic and it is still far and away the best kiss Sasha’s ever had. Here, held in place by Nicke’s firm hands, is the inevitable end to Sasha’s roaming orbit. He might burn up entirely under the pressure of Nick’s lips; the heat of his tongue as it flirts with Sasha’s will turn him to ash, and oh, he will die happy.

He gets his fingers hooked between the gaps of Nicke’s shirt and yanks. Buttons go flying, and Nicke pulls back long enough to mutter, “You’re replacing that.”

“I don’t know, you sound much less scary than usual right now,” Sasha tells him, and wriggles out of his own shirt while he has the space to do so without anybody getting whacked in the nose. Nicke is glaring at him when he emerges from the fabric, but it’s half-hearted. Also, and more importantly, he’s shed what’s left of his own shirt.

And: _damn_.

Sasha manfully resists the urge to wolf-whistle. He does not, however, resist the urge to grab Nicke by the waist and pull him back in. He’s shorter than Sasha by several centimeters and at least ten kilos lighter, but he’s not small by any definition of the word; his sides are all solid muscle under Sasha’s palms, his skin Scandinavia pale even though he claims to have lived in Moscow for two years.

Clearly he doesn’t take his shirt off frequently enough. Sasha will rectify that going forward.

First, however, there are more pressing matters to attend to. He glances up, catching Nicke’s gaze - Nicke nods - and then Sasha’s hands are on the fly of his pants and Nicke’s eyelashes are fluttering closed, his next inhale just a touch shakier. He’s as beautiful here as he is everywhere, and not even because Sasha is biased.

“You too,” Nicke says, so Sasha thumbs open the button on his jeans and works them down his legs until he can kick them off, and the whole time Nicke is watching, his cock flushed and growing harder, untouched.

Sasha is already stiff when he frees himself from his briefs, his whole body aching with the need to touch, but he doesn’t take himself in hand. Nicke has always been worth his patience.

“Well? What do you want?”

Nicke doesn’t startle, not quite, but when he moves it draws Sasha’s attention to how still he’d been, as though he hadn’t even been breathing, and that’s as flattering in its own way as his pink cheeks and hard cock.

“I have what I want,” Nicke says, and huffs a silent laugh, like he’s surprised by it. “And I don’t give a shit about the details.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Agent Bäckström,” Sasha accuses, grinning until Nicke shoves him backwards. “Oof. I’m serious, the kids are going to think you’re a pod person!”

Nicke bites his collarbone and says, “If you talk to any of our collective junior agents about what we do in bed, they will never find your body. I have mob contacts now, I can do that.”

“He’s technically an ex-mob contact,” Sasha says innocently, which is as far as he gets before Nicke ‘accidentally’ elbows him in the sternum while he’s reaching for the lube.

“Here’s a better offer, then,” Nicke says. “Shut up about work before I go soft, and I’ll let you blow me.”

Sasha hums thoughtfully, mostly because he wants to see Nicke’s attempt at a mid-coital bitchy face - and yup, there it is, ten out of ten stars - but he’s already rolling them over and sliding off the bed to land on his knees on the carpet.

“Anything for you,” Sasha says, and doesn’t even mind that it comes out completely sincere. Nicke’s thighs tense under his hands as he leans in; his cock twitches when Sasha inhales. He’s so quiet when Sasha licks up his shaft that the hitch in his breathing sounds as loud as a shout, and when his hand falls on the back of Sasha’s neck, fingers flexing unconsciously as he tries and fails to hold himself in check, Sasha’s blood warms with fierce satisfaction. Coaxing every tiny reaction out of Nicke is as much a thrill as surviving a firefight. Time slows, until it’s measured by the way his throat clicks on a sigh when Sasha sucks him, the desperate clutch of his fingers in the ends of Sasha’s hair when Sasha grips him at the base of his cock and sinks down to kiss his own fist. The way he gasps, finally, and says, “Sasha - Sasha,” and comes in a slow, full-body tremble.

Sasha swallows what he can and goes to wipe the rest away with the back of his hand in time for Nicke to catch his wrist and pull him back onto the bed. “Let me,” he says - and what, like Sasha’s going to say no to letting Nicke kiss him clean? His kisses are less ferocious now, could almost be called chaste if not for the hot swipe of his tongue across Sasha’s skin as he licks the last few drops of come from the corner of Sasha’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw. Sasha hears the groan rip free from his lungs as though from a distance. His eyes fall closed as Nicke kisses down his throat; every atom of his body seems to tense in anticipation of where the next one will fall. As Nicke keeps going, lower and lower, Sasha’s arms start to shake until he’s not sure he’s going to be able to hold himself upright, and then Nicke pushes at his shoulder and he finds himself flat on his back entirely without realizing it. Nicke makes an approving noise and kisses the soft skin at the divot of his hip. Sasha’s hands twist in the sheets as he struggles not to thrust upwards, and Nicke grabs them in his own, anchoring, before he puts his lips on Sasha’s cock for a kiss much filthier than its predecessors. Sasha chokes and shouts, hips bucking up, but Nicke just firms his grip on Sasha’s fists and opens his mouth to envelope Sasha in that wet heat, working himself down as Sasha pants and squirms, trying not to thrust again, sweat beading on his skin because he’s so, so close, all he needs is -

Nicke lets his teeth graze the underside of Sasha’s cock and that’s it, that’s enough. He might black out for a few seconds, because by the time he’s come back to himself Nicke is sitting up, licking his lips with a strangely familiar look on his face.

After a moment, he recognizes it as the smug expression Nicke gets after he’s spent a few minutes verbally eviscerating local law enforcement, and the only reason _that_ isn’t going to be awkward on Monday is the fact that Sasha has always found Nicke ripping people to shreds to be incredibly hot. Really, this isn’t anything new.

Nicke crawls his way back up the sheets to curl into him with a pleased sigh, and that _is_ new - but good. Great, even.

“So,” Nicke says, just when Sasha is on the verge of sleep. “I’ve been thinking about the best way to start taking down the rest of the local Bratva - what?” 

Sasha can’t help it - he laughs, wild with all the happiness his body can’t contain. “I love you,” he says, and maybe it’s too soon - maybe it’s too much - but Nicke just smiles back, smaller but no less ferocious, and says, “Good. Now pay attention, we’re not dying before we get the chance to do that at least a hundred more times.”

“Okay,” Sasha says, and settles in to listen to Nicke explain how they’re going to save their corner of the world.


	2. (and one time they did)

It’s like the beginning of a bad joke: _how many murderers can you arrest before someone tries to kill you?_

Six months later, and it turns out the answer is more than Sasha was expecting and fewer than he’d have liked. Of course, he’d have liked it to be all of them - contrary to what some of his coworkers think, he doesn’t _actually_ enjoy getting shot at.

“I did warn you this was going to happen,” Nicke says. “Don’t pick at it.”

Sasha pushes his fingertips into the edges of the gauze around his bicep, trying to resist the urge to scratch. Underneath the bandage the torn-up skin is almost entirely scabbed over, which means that it’s itching like mad. “I’m not,” he protests. “And he didn’t even hit me!”

“No, you managed to slice yourself open all on your own,” Nicke says darkly. “Speaking of which, remind me why you’re not at home resting right now?”

 _Why?_ Sasha thinks. Because it was sheer luck that Sasha, not Nicke, had been the first one out of the apartment building two mornings ago. Because Nicke always turned left on his way to the train station when Sasha turned right. Because the bullet that missed Sasha by centimeters and sent him diving for cover would have hit Nicke center mass.

Because the idea of Nicke being killed to send him a message feels a little like dying anyways, and Sasha doesn’t enjoy getting shot at but he’d happily suffer worse than a few scrapes and bruises to keep Nicke safe.

He heaves a dramatic sigh and wiggles around until he can lean on his bad arm; the pressure makes it throb, but at least it stops itching. “I _am_ resting.” There’s only the most minimal chance that the man he’s waiting for is going to make his appearance before midnight, which means that the ninety minutes Sasha has already spent hunched in the cargo area of an ugly rented hatchback are only the start of what’s sure to be an agonizingly tedious evening.

“Hm,” Nicke says, managing to convey skepticism, disapproval, and the fact that he knows Sasha is avoiding the question and it is only through Nicke’s goodwill that he’s getting away with it, all without opening his mouth.

God, but Sasha loves him so fucking much.

Nicke doesn’t say anything else for a while, but he doesn’t hang up, either. If Sasha pays attention, he can pick up the sounds of Nicke moving around the house, cupboards opening and metal clanking against metal - making dinner, probably, since it’s - Sasha checks his watch - almost seven. It reminds him to unwrap his own dinner, though he waits until he hears the clink of utensils on ceramic to take a bite of his sandwich. He eats faster than Nicke, crumpling up the wax paper when he’s done and tossing it into the front passenger seat so that he won’t accidentally sit on it when he shifts around. Nicke does the dishes while Sasha listens to him and stares through the tinted rear window at everyone who walks by the supposedly empty office three buildings down the street. If he can get a photo of their would-be assassin, Nicke can run it through the Interpol database for a name, alias, local affiliations - enough to justify an arrest warrant. If they’re really lucky, it might even be one that sticks.

“I’m going to shower,” Nicke says finally, and then there’s the brief rustling of clothing before the water comes on, loud enough through the speaker that Nicke must have brought the phone into the bathroom with him.

Sasha can picture it: Nicke ducking his head under the spray until his blond locks go dark and sodden, the brisk way he soaps skin and hair alike unless Sasha is there to slow him down, how his back gets pink and flushed as he stands with the water pounding at his shoulder blades, letting the heat loosen tense, knotted muscles.

If Sasha were at home, he could join Nicke in the shower. He’d stand between Nicke and the tile and work the last of worry from his neck and shoulders, then dry him off just enough that Nicke would let himself be bundled over to their bed without grumbling. And then -

Sasha looks down at the bulge in his jeans and wants to groan. Great. Because on top of being simultaneously stressed and bored, what he really needed was to be horny, too. He glances down at his phone, then forces his gaze back to the sidewalk he’s supposed to be monitoring. The water is still running. Nicke almost never spends this long in the bath unless he’s - he’s - 

Somehow the heel of Sasha’s palm has found its way to his cock, firm pressure through the denim, and this time he does groan. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he’s going to pull his hand away and get control of himself, because he’s here for a case, for work, for a matter that might literally be life or death, for - 

“Sasha?”

Fuck.

Sasha licks his lips, finds a stray crumb from dinner at the corner of his mouth. “Muscle cramp,” he tries, like Nicke doesn’t know the difference between pain and pleasure when it’s coming from Sasha’s throat.

Silence. True silence, quiet enough that Sasha can hear himself breathing just a hair more unevenly than normal.

Then: “Keep your eyes open,” Nicke says, “and go slow.”

Nicke can’t see him staring at the phone, but he’s never needed to see Sasha to know what he’s thinking. “Eyes open and _up_ ,” he chides.

Sasha laughs shakily and drags his eyes back to the office building. He pops the button on his fly, inches the zipper down until he can pull himself free. He doesn’t normally pay this much attention to the process of unzipping; he looks blindly out the window and thinks he can feel each metal tooth unlocking from its partner, the slightest catch of resistance in his fingertips. His heartbeat spikes - nerves, or anticipation. Maybe both.

“You’re going to need lube,” Nicke says, almost conversationally. “Options?”

He’s timed the question right as Sasha gets a hand on his cock, and Sasha’s entire brain stutters, a looping record of Nicke’s voice saying, _you’re going to need lube_ paired with the firm sensation of his own grip _._ “Uh,” he says, fighting to think. “Spit. I have - have oil for my gun in my pack.”

“Do you want to look for it?”

“No,” Sasha says, twitching with the need to move. He might be panting a little. “Nicke -”

“It’s okay,” Nicke says, sighing low and pleased.

Sasha realizes suddenly that he didn’t hear Nicke get dressed after his shower, only his footsteps as he left the bathroom, and just as suddenly he can see what must be happening back at the apartment, Nicke sprawled gloriously naked across their sheets, running a hand over himself, touching everything except his hardening cock. The image sparks Sasha into motion, working his mouth until he can spit into his left hand. He strokes himself once from root to crown, slow and easy like Nicke’s voice, and says, not nearly so easy, “And now?”

“Keep going,” Nicke says. “If you were here -”

“Sorry,” Sasha says, and hopes Nicke realizes that he’s apologizing for more than one night’s absence. When he strokes himself again the fingers of his right hand curl into the carpeted car floor, all the muscles in his stomach and thighs and calves locked rigid as he tries not to speed up.

“I know,” Nicke says. “I _know_ , Sasha. Eyes open.”

Had he closed them? He must have; the darkness behind his eyelids is nearly indistinguishable from the dimly lit street, but when he opens his eyes again he can see the glow of a single light, a yellow that is a poor substitute for Nicke’s golden crown. “Sorry,” he says again. His hand is still moving in steady rhythm, his grip tightening as though to compensate for the teasing pace.

The noise Nicke makes is the impression of laughter, an exhale that sounds amused and fierce all at once. “He didn’t even hit you,” he says, an echo of Sasha’s own words. “Don’t give him another chance. Keep them open.”

Sasha’s foot thumps into the far wall, straining against the metal frame; the motion jostles his scraped arm for one sharp, stinging moment that seems to light him up from the inside out.

“Focus,” Nicke says.  

Sasha thinks he agrees. He means to, anyway. The words are there, in his brain, but they might get lost in the litany of _slow_ and _eyes open_ and _focus_ , Nicke’s own iron-willed self-control a lighthouse beacon among the building waves of pleasure.

“I,” he says frantically. “Nicke, I -”

“I hear a car,” Nicke says tightly, and as soon as he says it Sasha can hear it too, the roar of an engine too showy for this part of town. “Wait. Is it him?”

Sasha twists himself just enough to see twin headlights coming towards him and keep going, too fast for anyone to slip out while the car is in motion without risking serious injury. He gasps, the last few crumbling walls giving way to relief and need. “No, no, it’s not -”

“Now, then,” Nicke says, with complete and utter faith that Sasha will do as he’s told - and Sasha does. He comes all over his hand and his jeans and the ugly rental car’s upholstery with a shudder that makes him curl into himself and pant for a few seconds, winded like he’s just finished a marathon. He pushes himself to something resembling upright in time to hear Nicke sigh and say, “ _Fuck_ , Sasha,” as close to a groan as Nicke ever gets. 

Sasha lets his head fall back against the car’s frame, grinning. “I should do recon more often.”

“Don’t you dare,” Nicke mutters, but his voice is fuzzy with satisfaction. “Take the damn pictures and get back here.”

“You’ll wait?” Sasha asks, and isn’t sure if he means _until I can take the pictures_ or _until I get home_ or maybe just _for me, forever_.

“Sasha,” Nicke says, and the way he says Sasha’s name is grumpy and perfect and sounds like _yes, yes, yes_. “What do you think?”

And, well - Sasha thinks forever sounds just right.


End file.
